Stained Glass
by Zen Lon
Summary: His name was Derrial Book. Lieutenant Colonel, Derrial Book and he was a soldier. This story is set pre-Firefly and is just a few ideas I've floating that demanded to be put on paper.
1. Chapter 1: Fire

**Stained Glass**

**Chapter 1: Fire**

_"I wasn't born a Sheppard Mal…"_

Lieutenant Colonel Derrial "The Rabbit" Book glanced around the darkness of his environment with a comfortable whim. It was shady in more ways than one, the slightly clouded night sky littered with the peaking lights of distant stars of faraway solar systems, glittered in near malice at those below them. He leaned against a crumbled down building, his hand gripping his firearm, a Tam and Caliston 54R-Revision C digital-trigger Sniper Rifle complete with laser sights, with an almost lazy grace. He was in his element.

"Book," his Second, Major Myers as most called him, whispered from his perch in what was left of the two-story estate's loft. Book cracked his neck gently, cursing his aging body as he looked up towards his subordinate.

"What you see Myers?

"I can't really say. It's a little dark. Want to launch off a flare?"

"You want to launch a flare and give away our position," Book scoffed at the thought.

"It was just a suggestion," Myers pointed out, "from what I can see, looks like they've set up a small camp under the cliffs by the river. By the lights of the fires, and judging from their size, I'd say three companies, 60 plus change."

"We're not here for the 60 plus. We're here for one man, leave the others to our grunts," Book checked his weapon, flicking out the seven round chamber to make sure the rounds were locked in place, he popped it back in, and looked at his rifle's maintenance manager:

**Weapon Charge:** 89

**Ammunition Count:** 7 Rounds Accounted

**Magnetic Guidance System:** Green

**Hydraulics:** Green

**Acoustic Sensors:** Green

**Acoustic Silencer:** In need of replacement within 3 weeks

**Optics:** Green

"Myers. You have a replacement Acoustic suite?" Book asked, climbing up the make-shift ladder – 50 mm bullet marks in what was left of a concrete wall – and into the loft.

"No. What do you think I am an armory?"

"Never crossed my mind," Book said, as he lay prone in the loft, and leveled his rifle, "keep looking, and let me know when you have the target in visual."

"What this guy do anyway?" Myers asked, still crouched behind a small pile of rubble, his eyes locked in his binoculars.

"He's a supplier. Intelligence marks him moving weapon shipments to the independents."

"I wonder if he has a family."

"You always talk so much Myers."

"I thought 10 years in the service would have taught you that," Myers laughed, but his cheerfulness evaporated in an instant, replaced by the hard grit of a career soldier, "I got visual. Eight points to the left of the Command tent. Do you see him?"

"I see him," Book whispered, adjusting his scope as he zoomed in. The target was an elderly man, his body rounded, his clothes tight fit around his large body, giving him the illusion of a balloon. He had thinning hair receding towards the back of his scalp, and he wore an expression that made Book wonder what the camp smelled like.

"What's the wind?"

"Wind is at," Myers glanced at his sensor systems, "six miles heading east with a northerly trade."

"Give me the range."

"2020 meters, approximately."

"What's the pull?"

"Spin is 0.07 millimeters spin right, per meter."

"Count me off."

"Sir?" Myers said quietly, still looking through the binoculars.

"You got a question Myers," Book whispered as he locked eyes on the target, memorizing the man's every expression, movement, and mannerism. There was an almost stalker like intimacy between shooter and target that Book respected. He could always see it, the eyes of his victim, the relaxed expression that sighed across their faces as the bullet connected the slight surprise the way their muscles relaxed as death took its toll.

"Are we at war sir?"

"Officially?" Book asked, his voice dropping in tone at the formality of his subordinate. His finger eased on the trigger, the cool touch of metal seeping through his gloves as he focused his entirety into the one pull, the one shot.

"Yes."

"No."

"Then why are we here."

"We're here because of a belief."

"What belief is that?"

"A belief in a better world, in all, better worlds."

"Fire. Fire. Fire."

Book's finger tensed, the weapon tugged as the shell ripped from its barrel, searing like humanized judgment towards its destination, and the quiet echoed into the night.


	2. Chapter 2: No Name

**Author Note: This chapter is tentative. I had a lot of ideas swimming in my head, but wasn't quite sure how to put them down. At the same time however, i was worried about losing the ideas, so I figured, whatever was there, I'd put them down and sort it out later. **

* * *

**Chapter 2: No Name**

_"They'll come at you sideways…"_

The Alliance Secondary Base Camp of Libertine on Miranda was nearly a square mile, which was considerable since it was only a recon outpost position. Surrounded on all sides by a two foot thick and ten foot high castcrete wall and dotted with gun-emplaced battlements all over the base's outer ramparts, it was moderately defended despite the several high-value targets that called the base home.

At the base's Northern Corner was a small hanger that housed three Vaser gunships. Adjacent to the hanger was the armory which carried everything from small arms, to rocket-propelled grenades and served as the general weapons stockpile for the marine battalions that moved in and out of the base. The command post was in the middle, complete with its very own laser fence and four anti-aircraft/ordinance batteries mounted on every corner.

"Feels good to be home," Book commented, as he and Myers breached the small hill overlooking the base. He smiled fleetingly, as he gazed down the open fields of tall grass and flowerbeds at the rising fortress of mankind's intrusion into nature. Arrogant, was the word he used for it.

"If you can call this home," Myers muttered. Book didn't say anything, shouldering his weapon instead and beginning his descent down the grassy hill.

Upon reaching the outer walls, the holographic security strip flickered on, running around towards the opposite corners of the East walls face, surveying the surroundings. The security strips were set off by motion sensors, most of the time picking up rabbits, various rodents, but Brigadier General Welsh Sax was infamous for being thorough and for his base, he spared no expense creating a military facility befitting of his station.

"Present identification," a speaker built into the gateway crackled. Book reached into uniform jacket. Pulling out his I-Dent card, he slid it into the reader at elbow level on the gateway's left side. The system beeped cheerfully and the gateway sucked into the wall with a mechanical hiss.

It was bustling inside of the base. Libertine played host to six full marine battalions, one gunship squadron, a dozen moderately ranked officers, and one Operative who generally didn't interact with anyone save when presenting information during briefings. Today however, the Operative was standing at the gateway, his hands crossed behind his back, and emptiness etched into his features.

"Which one of you is Lieutenant Colonel Derrial Book," the Operative asked. He had an odd face. His lips were thin lines and barely moved when he spoke. He was a little on the stocky side, with narrow shoulders and almost feminine hips. He wore no uniform, no insignias, just a plain military jacket, dark blue military pants, and a black glove over his right hand. A sword harness was pulled around under his armpits and across his back, and his sword handle could be seen poking out over of his right shoulder, the word "SIX" carefully acid etched into the titanium pommel.

"I am," Book said, saluting.

"We," the Operative said with a nod of his head, "do not deal with formalities. This will be the first and last time I use your rank Derrial Book. Now if you'll please, come with me."

The Operative turned, with Book, albeit reluctantly, following in the man's footsteps. The Operative stopped and turned his head slightly to the side so his chin was nearly touching his left shoulder.

"Not you Major," he hissed, before continuing to walk towards his personal quarters. Myers looked at Book almost pleadingly, but Book shook his head, giving Myers the "you'd best stay away cause this guy plays ball hard" look. He hoped his friend understood.

"See you at mess," Myers said quietly, saluting. Book shivered at the formality, but returned the salute. He gave Myers' back one last look as his Second turned and headed towards the showers. Book sighed, following the Operative towards are magnificent building that couldn't better reciprocate its surroundings.

It was almost like a town house, painted light beige with Victorian roof trimming and broad double-paned bulletproof glass windows. The wood frame around the doorway was carved with angel wing textures that twisted towards two hovering lamps suspended by Gravity-lines. It was an abrupt contrast, the desensitized architecture of the military base playing contrast to the almost adorable Earth-that-was cottage.

The door was slightly ajar and Book let himself in, taking stock of his surroundings as he was trained to do. It was bright, and every single corner was filled with a brilliance that defied physics. Book wouldn't have been surprised if the room had no shadows.

"This way Derrial Book," the voice of the Operative snapped through an office that was on the far end of the hallway and to the right. Book slung his weapon over his shoulder and walked down the hall, the heavy thud of his boots deadening into the soundproof wood walls.

Not believing it was possible to be more surprised, stepping into the Operatives office proved to Book that there were clearly some people with too much time, and too much money to spend on it. The entire office was holographic. Shimmering trees that rose into the false ceiling cast their shadows of light across the forest floor so real that Book could've sworn he could hear the snapping of tree branches as he walked. The trickle of a distant river could be heard amidst the calls and songs of birds.

"Sir, permission to speak freely," Book asked, standing rigid in time-honored military tradition.

"I am not an officer. I have no rank, no name, nothing. But for the sake of conversation Book," the Operative turned and offered what Book could only assume was a smile, "you may call me Ben. Know that Ben is not my real name, however, for now it will suffice."

"Permission to speak, Ben."

"Granted."

"Is there a reason you have brought me here sir?"

"Forgive my theatrics, but I am going to answer your question, with a question. What do you believe in Derrial Book?"

"If you're asking about my Faith, I am Christian by birth, and atheist by choice."

"You believe your destiny is your own?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you did. We are defined by our beliefs Derrial Book."

"Why do-."

"I keep saying your name you wonder," the Operative gestured for Book to follow him, indicating with one of his slender but strong fingers a small clearing in the fake forest, "because very soon, you may not have one."

"Sir?"

"Ben," the Operative snapped, "Details Derrial Book. We mustn't forget the details."

"Sir, I don't want to-."

"You scored 2680 out 2700 on your Standardized Aptitude Test. You have an IQ of 145. Physically, you rank in the top 3 in strength, speed, stamina, and reflexes. You have a 98.411 overall accuracy rating in sniping, small arms, mid-ranged armaments, and truly impressive close combat capabilities. You do not belong in the regulars," Ben punctuated his every word with a hard accent for emphasis.

"You seem to know a lot about me."

"I am trained to know a lot about you. You are a strong-willed individual, with a personality built upon the foundations of friendship. You firmly believe that friendship is what makes us men. You are Atheist but still hopeful, that there is something guiding you, but the world I am asking you to join Derrial Book, will not afford you such things. We will take your hope and destroy it; we will take your friendship and teach you how to use it against your enemies," Ben said, "know that if you accept, the world around you will no longer be the world of light. We live in shadows, mistrust, and deception. But more so, we live in a world of belief."

Better words, for all, better worlds, Book thought to himself.

"For a better world. For all better worlds Derrial Book," Ben spread out his hands, "a world without war, without violence, without anger. A world where no man need fear his neighbor."

"A world without sin," Book breathed.

"Yes. A world without sin. But to do this, we will need to become sin," Ben said softly.

"So what are you asking me?"

"Are you willing to become sin?"

Book looked down at his hands, they were covered in blood: the blood of innocents, the blood of the guilty, and his own blood coursing under the blanket of others to the slow beat of his heart. How long had it been? How long had it been since that day?

"Yes," Book whispered, "I will become sin."

In the shortest sentence, the smallest word, and the longest breath Book had ever experienced, hope died.


	3. Dirt Roads

**Chapter 3: ****Dirt Roads**

_"__That's how they move, that's how they think__…"_

"So are we going to sit in silence all the way to town sir?" Myers asked as Book drove the Hopper Class dust buggy down the dusty back road that ran south of Libertine. Book didn't reply. His eyes were instead, transfixed on the road in a deep trance while his mind turned the passing events over and over like a washing machine on a prolonged spin cycle. It was late afternoon, the sky was an orange-tinged blue with wispy clouds scattered into wet streaks across the sinking amber. The white trails crisscrossed like ship wakes.

"Sir!" Myers shouted. Book jolted awake, giving the steering column a sharp jerk as the buggy hit large bump in the road at nearly 60 miles per hour. The air cushion holding the buggy aloft whined, its rotators groaning as it struggled to adjust to the sudden change in terrain. Fighting to hold the column steady, Book feathered the pressure on the accelerator while thumbing down the hovers, violently swerving the buggy back into control.

"Sorry," Book muttered, as Myers let loose a sigh of relief, his hands releasing their tight grip on the body frame.

"Something on your mind sir," Myers asked. Book winced visibly at the caustic formality that trailed on the end of Myer's "sir."

"It's nothing," Book said quickly, slowing down as he turned the corner of a copse of trees that just covered the city of Arcaelis. As they rounded the bend, Arcaelis peeked through the leafy canopy, its towering skyscrapers pricking the sky in modesty. Compliments of assorted sun-streaked aircraft wove through the cityscape like patchwork quilts, their glittering bodies and plumes of exhaust transforming the sinking horizon into a sea of glitter.

With a quick kick in acceleration, Book pulled the buggy into a reserved military parking lot just outside of the city's edge since City ordinance didn't allow armed vehicles within its borders. Just next to the parking lot was a duty-free bar Book had often wanted to visit, but as he wasn't overly fond of alcohol, he had never actually made a point to. There was a sign outside that read "Jack's Dune" in sputtering patterns, the gaudy lights played tricks on Book's eyes.

"Myers," Book began.

"Book."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sir?

"Off the record."

"When have we ever been on the record?"

"I'm serious Myers."

"Sure sir," Myers' eyes darted around somewhat uncomfortably. Book winced again. He could feel it now. The visibly small distance that had grown between him and his comrade. He could feel it in the staccato tones that accented each of Myers'. There was a guard that had been built overnight that hadn't been there before, and while the formality was just a byproduct, it grated like sandpaper.

"Do you remember why we signed up? Do you remember why we enlisted?" Book asked, still firmly seated in the buggy's driver seat with no inclination or conscious effort to move, despite the limited time of leave the sniper team had been given.

"We serve in protecting the members of the Alliance, strength through unity, unity through peace, all this for the sake of a better world, for all, better worlds," Myers grimaced, "recruitment posters Book. Is that what you mean?"

"I forgot how you were about those," Book smiled apologetically.

"Permission to speak freely sir," Myers said curtly.

"You don't need to ask that, not ever."

"Look. I don't know what the operative said to you, and honestly, I don't very much care because that's none of my business. What I do know, is the kind of stuff they do Book? That's not us. I respect you, and it's your gorram choice, but that ain't us. That's not what we joined up for," Myers snapped, the words he had been holding back since yesterday pouring out uninhibited, "if you want to believe that kind of thing, I don't know you anymore."

"I just," Book said. He wanted to say it, the word that danced against his teeth like little devils, their clicking struggling to escape his lips. But he didn't, he bit on his tongue and stopped them cold. Those weren't words for anyone to hear, not even himself.

"Sir," Myers slouched his shoulders, his face contorted in such a wide mixture of emotions Book didn't know how to react.

"Let's just leave it, the Turmons are waiting," Book said. _Ten years_, Book thought. _So much said, so much left to say, so much that would never be said._

"Wouldn't want to keep them waiting do we," Myers said, relaxing a fraction of a centimeter. But Book could see what Myers wanted to say. Through the layers of doubt, concern, tension, and fear, Book could see the small fortress Myers had built around himself. Ten years they had served together and neither man could decide if it was too long, or not long enough.

* * *

"What do you think," the COM crackled with the low-pitched roar of the Operative Prime, the reputably most fearsome man in the known verse. He was surrounded with so much mystery that some considered him a rumor, or a ghost, or even so far as a higher entity, untouchable in its entirety. Ben knew different. A man was only a man, and nothing more.

"That depends. He's a believer, but there's still an almost optimistic side that lingers. I worry it might keep him from functioning as we intended," Ben sat behind his desk, his legs crossed right over left with his right ankle resting on his upper thigh. He was angled 23 degrees from the desk and his hand was firmly gripping his sword beneath the polished red oak surface. The Operative General commanded considerable respect, but he was if anything, unpredictable and dangerously transparent.

"He can be broken of these, optimisms."

"How can you be sure? You haven't spoken to him. He hesitates Prime, we can't tolerate that."

"No man is unbreakable, which is why I chose you. He can be broken."

"Yes."

"You want to ask me a question."

"Do I overstep myself?"

"That depends on your question."

"Why him?"

"Is this necessary," Prime leaned forward and folded his hands together on his desk in front of him. Despite his motion however, he was nearly unreadable save the slight pique in interested illustrated by the slight tenseness of the center of his brow, and a small tug on his lips. Ben shuddered mentally, intimidated yet afraid to show it.

"You charged me to train him."

"Even so."

"You're avoiding the question."

"Never promised to answer."

"I've been through his file," Ben said, doing his best to control the racing thoughts within his mind. Prime seemed more interested than his usual nonchalant professionalism. There were those who thought Prime's uncanny abilities were anything but uncanny.

"Shouldn't that answer your questions?"

"It's not enough Prime. It's not nearly enough."

"It will have to do till we deem it prudent to inform you."

"You could do away with some imprudence."

"Let us not forget the details. We must 'never' forget the details."

Ben's face remained expressionless, his inner self struggling to read his foe. Their eyes circled each other wearily, like tigers trapped in a ring, each sizing up the other in a dangerous dance with space for only one victor.

"Where does this leave us."

"Unresolved."

"I expect answers if you expect me to break them."

"Now you overstep yourself."

"Perhaps you would rather me blind."

"I would rather you listen to my instructions."

"So you rather me be a drone."

"Perhaps," the Prime left it there, "report what he has decided."

The COM went dead, leaving Ben in his holo-room. The forest had darkened now. The once pristine sky clouded over with the dark of collecting clouds. In the gathering darkness, the heavy pressure of forbidding rain pressed down to the fake earth.

Ben gripped his sword tighter, his fingers sliding over the etching on its pommel. He knew very well his office was monitored, but despite this knowledge he grit his teeth and his face expressed a momentary vulnerability. It was anger for only a split second, but emotional nonetheless. _Careful_, Ben thought to himself_, I will not be in front of you foreve__r_.

* * *

Author Note: Most of this is all tentative. I actually have NO plan as to where this is supposed to go, and have no intention of making so as I believe the writing process is a spontaneous outburst and if approached otherwise would end in contrived forced pieces. Truth be told, I have been struggling to fall into the world that Joss Whedon has created as I believe the Firefly universe is incredibly rich and filled with so much thematic diversity that to any writer who wants to do character studies, I would say look no further than Firefly. To those who might find my interpretation of any characters within the realm of Firefly non-cannon, or in violation of Joss Whedon's vision, I sincerely apologize, and all comments (whether they be positive or negative) are welcomed as I hope to grow as a writer. I wish everyone a good day, and may the muse always be with you. 


End file.
